


[he bites god in the wrist]

by swallows (toska)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Patch 3.3 Spoilers, Sexual Situations, Spoilers throughout all the current Heavensward patches, still don't know if it's cool being a T rating or an M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toska/pseuds/swallows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Estinien Wyrmblood on loving a messiah. (Estinien/Ysayle)</p>
            </blockquote>





	[he bites god in the wrist]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salts/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ARI I LOVE YOU!!!!!! <3 sorry this is a bit late rip, but i'm glad the first fic i post on this ao3 is for you aaaa
> 
> also shoutout to novas, ren and jin for taking in my hype about this fic, i love you guys!

.

 

ONE—

They call her a messiah, they call her _Lady_ , and you are someone who inherited a title of the killers of creatures that she holds dear and you wonder how anything between you two could be love.

You haven’t thought about love in the longest time, after you lost your family— what love was there worth loving? But you look at the boy who follows his ideals, and you look at her who does the same.

The Warrior of Light looks at them with the same question in their eyes, and continues to carry on anyways. You think that the only difference between you and the Warrior is the fact that you question, but you don’t ponder it, not when the air is heavy in the scent of dragons and you can hear the wyrens ravaging, just simply _raging_ with rough ragged roars— their voices raw and rampant.

Beasts, the lot of them— a part of your voice thinks, and when you look at her, the thought fades away somewhat, but it feels no less true. There’s always voices of a horde humming around your head, you imagine this is what it was like during Ravana for the Warrior and Iceheart. The constant incessant humming that won’t stop, and you know that Nidhogg’s brood is mourning.

 _They mourn the way you have once mourned_ , she tells you and you want to snap that you have never stopped mourning, that this isn’t some sort of ache that doesn’t simply go away, but you don’t. You’re not one to confess to mourning, and she looks at you as if she knows and if she understands and you reach for your helm and fasten your armor and leave the tent.

You don’t want to look at her anymore.

 

.

 

TWO—

She kisses you and her lips are as cold as ice and her hair drapes a curtain between the rest of the world and the two of you. She takes the helm of your head and you move her hair to one side and rest in the crook for her neck.

You press your lips against her pulse and there’s a part of you that wants to sink your jaw into her flesh and leave it bruised and purple and raw because you know that whatever she stands for is not holiness. She pulls away and looks at you as if she knows what you are thinking, and yanks at your hair. Her nails scratch the back of your neck.

Your nails dig into her waist.

This isn’t holiness, but you find yourself ascending anyways.

 

.

 

THREE—

After bathing, she lathers herself in the oils of dragons and you look at her like she is bathing in the blood of children. “I have sensitive skin,” she explains later— she’s straddling you, not allowing you a moment to discard your armor. “As a child my skin would dry up and sting during the winter time, and I used to imagine they were scales after they took me in. Their oil helps me keep my skin smooth and safe from the harshness of the cold, but there’s nothing that’ll manage to keep my lips less bitten and cracked by the cold,” She adds as an afterthought, her fingers on your lips.

“You are still looking at me like I bathe in the oils of children,” she says, chiding. “I’m not one for being lathered in the essence of dragons,” you respond back, biting. She raises and eyebrow and looks at you. Her nails scratch against your armor, trailing down a sharp line and the inside of her nails are riddled with Nidhogg’s dried blood and she just looks at you.

“Whose lathered in the essence of dragons?” She questions and for once, you don’t snark back.

You never do clean the armor, however.

The Warrior of Light glances at the streak marks of the nails in your armor and doesn’t comment and you wonder if, mayhap, you should have cleaned it. But Iceheart looks at you, self-satisfied and smug and Alphinaud accepts it as scrapes from tree branches, while the Warrior studiously avoids your gaze and you wonder if Aymeric will ever be able to compensate the Warrior enough for this excursion.

 

.

 

FOUR—

She disappears after Zenith. She disappears the way all prophets do and you are neither a follower or believer, so you don’t stick around and wait.

You are her lover, but you are also the Azure Dragoon.

And like all prophets, she is seen as a false prophet, but this time that title comes from Hraesvelger, and she keeps her in exile. You make no move to comfort her, nor do you feel like you should.

A prophet is someone who changes the people and she doesn’t need crystals and Saint Shiva to be revered. She will shepherd in her own reckoning.

It’s never been about reverence for her, and that’s why reverence comes.

 

.

 

FIVE—

You are not a holy man, nor are you a devout one. Faith in the Fury, faith in the Twelve; faith in the Holy See meant absolutely nothing to you. Faith is something that neither stops wars or revives the dead— weapons however, are a different story.

The Warrior of Light treats their weapons with the same care you treat your spear, they spend their nights at camp tending it, even if it has seen to the slightest mar.

Most nights you are preoccupied, but tonight you do the same.

“Alphinaud would be surprised you are up, he is convinced both you and Ysayle are early to bed and early to rise kind of people.”

“We’re of neither sorts.” You declare cooly, wanting to end the discussion.

“Well you are certainly early to _bed_ ,” The Warrior coughs, biting down the grin on their face. And you’re scowling, glad for the armor that hides the flush in your cheeks and unable to comprehend that the Warrior of Light actually does have a sense of humor behind all that quiet.

Your mouth is agape as you continue to stare at them, but they’ve already moved on in thought. Their eyes cool again as they work on gear maintenance.

And you don’t reply or even bring it back up, it’s a fight you would lose, regardless of you having the chance to say the last word or not. But you think about your reply and it was only partly true, how neither you or Iceheart got much sleep until the most quiet hours of the night, when both your bruises are tender and her head is nestled against your arm– and her head is turned away and all you can see is the expanse of her back and the tresses of her hair.

And whatever passion, whatever that was burning and searing between the two of you quells into something quiet and tender, something that neither of you have yet to speak of, both too hesitant, both with too much on the line to give a name to such a feeling.

You wake up holding her in an embrace.

 

.

 

SIX—

You wash Nidhogg’s blood off your armor when she’s not around, only when you are back in Foundation away from her smug glances and the Warrior’s and Alphinaud’s amused grins. They reckoned you were keeping it that way out of spite. Here at least, you have the excuse of Aymeric ordering you to do so. For a moment you pause, once you reach the area where her nails had dug through.

You run your thumb along that indent that marked where her skin once was, before going into scrub the blood, dirt and grime away.

The scent of Nidhogg still clings through once you are finished and you wonder if that stench will follow you around for life.

 

.

 

SEVEN—

There was no final kiss between the two of you, no final moment of embrace. There was a nod, there was a promise, there was an assurance that the two of you would meet again.

Neither of you were fools to consider this a love story, to truly consider it romance.

But when Shiva fades and Iceheart falls, you feel the kind of grief you haven’t felt in a long time. But you were just a boy then, young and without armor to steel you.

Unfortunately the armor isn’t enough, when Nidhogg envelops you.

You would fear that the stench of him will never come off you, but that’s the last of your worries.

 

.

 

EIGHT—

You expected to die, and maybe a small part of you craved it. But you saw— no, not _saw_ , you _felt her_ and she was grounding you, and steadying you and you, _oh you_ , you are not a holy man— but you know Halone, the way every Ishgardian does. You know that Halone is Rhalgr’s daughter and she is the steadiness that comes after the wake of destruction.

If Rhalgr is pushing yourself up with a bruised fist and trembling muscles, then Halone is the steadiness that follows.

You think so felt her, and you think the Warrior felt her too, or maybe something else, something more.

You are dizzy and weak and tired and you don’t know who or what could be more than her.

You pass out.

 

.

 

NINE—  
  
"What happened, friend?" Aymeric asks and you look away— and for a moment you don't think to answer, you don't want to answer, but then you see that helm on the window sill and think about how you are not that man anymore.  
  
There's a soft part of you that aches at the thought, but that ache makes way for relief and you find yourself able to really breathe for the first time in a long time.  
  
"I think it was love," you admit and because you are you, you keep it brusque and short. But there is more to the story.  
  
"You had someone." Aymeric states, and there's something indescribable in his eyes, something you only halfway recognize to being mirrored in the Warrior of Light's eyes, in your eyes. Aymeric was always able to draw out more words from you, so you confess.

  
"I had a Lady— I lost a Lady."  
  
There's dawning look in Aymeric's expression then. "Iceheart," he breathes.  
  
You nod and say no more. There's so much you can't say, that you don't want to say. And it’s not like you’re really one to say it— helm of the Dragoon or not, even the man beyond the title of Azure Dragoon is a private one. And there's more to it than just hips pressed together and grinding or how cold her lips were against yours or the unnamed tenderness that came afterwards.  
  
There were a lot of afterwards with you and her, so much untapped and undiscussed and it's a conversation that you don't want to have with anyone in particular, especially because you never had it with her.  
  
So you start the conversation within yourself, and begin to heal.

 

.

 

TEN—

There is trauma, you would be a fool to think there to not be. But sometimes you wake up with burnt ash in your lungs and think that you might actually be the dragon.

“It will be a long time before the trauma fades,” Aymeric tells you and Alphinaud looks like he wants to say something, but the Warrior puts their hand on his shoulder and silences the boy. Alphinaud looks surprised at the Warrior’s forwardness, but the Warrior of Light looks at you with a look of understanding and you nod in thanks.

When they leave the room, you stumble through a lot of bad dreams and you fidget with the silence and you keep a flame burning because the darkness overwhelms you and reminds you of that time and you long for a hearth.

A part of you longs for her, if you set a purple flame ablaze will she heed your calls. The Warrior said that there are heretics lighting the sky with purple smoke in mourning of their Lady’s passing.

The Warrior flies overhead these smokestacks on Midgardsormr’s back and mourns in silence.

You sit in remission and mourn as well. She was your hearth, you think. And then you tell her that in your good dreams and she presses against you and asks, “Not your heart?”

“What’s the difference,” you snap at her— feeling far too exposed and open and vulnerable.  Whatever is left between you two is the fragments of peace and concessions you have made to each other. And she comes to you then, and places her hand where your heart lays beating and says, “Your hearth; your heart.”

You are cold to touch in this dream, colder– colder than her. It’s the wyrm in you, you think. You are tense and unsure, and you are looking down at her with soft lips and a gaze hidden behind your helm. You want to take the helm off so badly, you realize. She touches your lips gently, a ghost of a touch, and says it again.

“Your heart.”

You settle your hands against her waist, and you’re still not looking at her in full, but there is an admission, a shard of honesty that wasn’t quite there before as you repeat. “ _My_ _heart_.”

And then you wake up.

 

.

 

AFTER—

You set out and leave the moment your wounds are healed, even though your duties haven’t been formally released, but that matters naught— to you they’ve been released ever since the eyes have been plucked out of you armor and thrown into the abyss.

There’s a lightness to you that wasn’t there before, and you’re wearing loose clothing and your hair is tied back and this time, there is nothing covering your vision. No helm to cover your eyes with.

Sometimes it feels like you can see everything so much clearer now.

So you start to travel.

You go to places you have been back with the Warrior and Alphinaud, as well as Ysayle. You camps out in old campgrounds, and you take in his surroundings with a quiet appreciation he never thought to have before. You travel with flowers in your hands, and you leave one by Zenith for Saint Shiva, but unlike the once heretics who set pilgrimage here, you set another here for Ysayle, before heading Azys Lla.

The dragons notice, but don’t comment.

And for what it is worth, you are grateful.

 

.

 

Azys Lla troubles you, because you can still remember Nidhogg so you doesn’t let your mind wander the way it had before. “It might be trauma,” Aymeric tells you, but you push that thought away.

“It is trauma,” the voice that sounds like Aymeric tells you— more stern this time, but you are sick of voices yours head so you continues to ignore it. Saint Shiva calls you here, so you come.  You are still not religious, but this isn’t about religion or faith.

Or maybe it is about faith.

Faith in your friends, in your comrades: the ones here and the ones that have passed.

You don’t think on this any further has you plants the snapdragons, an oddly fitting flower, for Ysayle. You’ve never called her by her first name before, anywhere outside his mind, and you wonder if you’ll be able to do so one day. But instead of one day, you decide to make this day today.

“Ysayle.” You test the words out loud while you remain crouched by the flowers, before repeating them— this time, more sure of yourself.

“Rest well, my Lady.” You say, patting the flowers into the dirt. And there is something so intrinsically refreshing and human about seeing dirt in your nails as opposed to blood, and you have never felt so alive, and refreshed as this time when you water from your canteen onto them.

When you’re done, you pause for a moment and look at the flowers you’ve planted. You’ve tucked away some seeds as well and packed them into the ground. It’s not much of an offering, but this is no offering— it’s a gift.

It’s an apology.

It isn’t until a cool breezes brushes past you, leaving a ghost of a touch on your skin that you leave. You’ll be back, you know; you’ll see to it that the garden grows.

You’ll see to it that you’ll grow, too.

**Author's Note:**

> ROLLS IN BECAUSE LET US TALK ABOUT THE MESSIAH NARRATIVE AND YSAYLE (originally i wanted this fic to be called something like 'TEN HONEST TRUTHS FROM LOVING A MESSIAH' or something but eh) 
> 
> (actually [he bites god in the wrist] is taken from a stage direction [she bites god in the wrist] from a play called the _Spurt of Blood_ whose plot has no influence on this whatsoever, aside from the title) also i wanted a scene where estinien left a bruising kiss on ysayle's wrist bc of this title but that was kinda weird to even fit in anywhere)
> 
> hmmm i don't know if there's anything else, the fic itself does feel like a walk in memory lane. the last scenes in it have been written a few weeks ago right after i finished heavensward, all patches included! also i have a lot of halone + rhalgr thoughts in general about those two in particular and their philosophy
> 
> anyways!!! ari i hope you enjoyed this fic, i hope you had a good birthday and i hope today's a good day for you and you've gotten that +30/+30 and now have a sweet glowing weapon YE! ily friend


End file.
